I wrote this poem for my wife on the occasion of the death of her grandfather.


We are the sons victorious!
Though riven be once callow shields
that canopy stretched over us
against what barbs the Dragon fields
is proof, and rest and shade beside;
the wing of Him who stemm'd the tide!

We are the sons victorious!
Low-born, the King has fixed His crest
upon our brows, has branded us,
bequeathed our title, that confessed,
and for His sake, as He has willed
His quiver to be greatly filled!

We are the sons victorious
who gain the gates of fire unquenched
'neath crimson banner glorious,
with polished spikes of promise clenched
in nail-scarred hands, identified
as one with One who won and died!

We are the sons victorious!
On will depraved and thew debased
His hammer rings, uproarious,
and, tempered by that thund'ring grace,
nor silent ere the task complete,
are heirs from bastards made and meet!

We are the sons victorious!
Our hymn resplendent has been raised
wheree'er the call has taken us
to steal from stone-tongue chords of praise.
From peak to vale, to wood from sea,
we only tread from Thee to Thee!

We are the sons victorious,
an host of mouldy corpses, stark,
but one great Breath infuses us
to stir the clay and fan the spark
ere death in us drinks Death's own cup,
and Resurrection bears us up!

Christ is the King Victorious!
The Living God has purchased heirs
through shame and suff'ring dolorous;
Has wrought Him sons, that they might share,
and live, and wield, and taste, and see
His triumph, yea, His victory.

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